


in which Bucky discovers edging and it was the best day ever

by Cinnamon_Anemone



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Deepthroating, Edging, Fix-It, Fluff and Crack, M/M, One Shot, Orgasm Delay/Denial, PWP, Size Kink, Sort Of, Steve wants in on this but he won't admit it because he's a weenie, Tony and Bucky resolve their issues with blowjobs, because they actually talked about their feelings and made good choices and didn't ruin everything, hints of Stony/Stucky/Stuckony too if you squint, the Avengers are still together and everyone is friends, this is incredibly dumb you have been warned, you don't see any of that though because this is just porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-05
Updated: 2019-02-05
Packaged: 2019-10-23 00:43:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17673164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cinnamon_Anemone/pseuds/Cinnamon_Anemone
Summary: Bucky and Tony have a "teammates with benefits" arrangement. Bucky is not prepared for what this will entail.





	in which Bucky discovers edging and it was the best day ever

**Author's Note:**

> For my fellow degenerates on the WinterIron server. I love y'all.
> 
> UPDATE: for the time being, this fic is NO LONGER ANON. I have claimed my shame OwO

“I’m not sure I completely thought through the logistics of this,” Tony says pensively, from halfway down the bed.

“What?” James asks, in hoarse and slightly strangled voice.

“I said, I’m not sure I completely thought thr—”

“I _heard_ you,” James gargles desperately. It is not his best moment. “I mean what does that _mean?_ ”

He should have known better, when Tony wiggled up to him like an evil-minded kitten in the kitchen after team brunch. He’d been feeling frisky the past couple days, and, not that James really ought to complain, but _frisky_ had turned to _mischievous_ had turned to _focusing every ounce of manic energy on sexually tormenting Former Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes for two solid hours_ and somewhere along the way James is pretty sure he lost control of the situation.

“I’m just saying,” Tony replies, interrupting James’ martyred ruminations, “it’s pretty big.”

“It’s pretty— you put it in your ass on a regular basis, it hasn’t changed size since yesterday,” James protests, proud of the fact that his voice stays at its normal octave rather than cracking into the shrill squeak that has been lying in wait inside his larynx for at least an hour and thirty minutes.

“My ass doesn’t have a gag reflex,” Tony says primly.

“This was _your_ idea,” James moans, dropping his head despairingly onto the pillow so he doesn’t have to look at Tony eyeballing his dick like a cross-eyed goldfish sizing up a lobster.

It _had_ been Tony’s idea, and, at the time, James had thought it was a pretty fuckin’ swell idea. He’s sucked Tony off plenty of times, but they haven’t gotten around to the reverse yet, and the mere suggestion of Tony wrapping his soft, mobile lips around his cock had forced James to beat a hasty and stiff-legged retreat from the communal kitchen this morning.

Except that then Tony had gotten it into his head that he needed to make a whole _production_ out of it, which had escalated into _two fucking hours_ of building up to the main event – kissing, petting, stroking, fingering, and just about every other kind of _-ing_ in the book that can drive a guy crazy – at _no point during which_ James had been permitted to orgasm. Tony is so good at working him up without getting him off that James thinks he ought to have his own personal article in the Geneva Conventions. His balls are so sore and tight he’s surprised they haven’t been sucked back into his body and launched into his kidneys.

“Hey. Earth to Barnes. You’re not getting bored, are you? ‘Cause we can stop, you know, pick this up another day—”

“I am not bored,” James says, with the stiff gravitas of a soldier marching to the front line. “But if it’s possible for the tubes in your balls to explode and cause some kind of toxic internal jizz-explosion syndrome, then I’m pretty sure that’s about to happen, to me, right now. It might be a medical emergency.”

“Wow, no, you’re definitely thinking of appendicitis. The army really let you down in the sex-education department, huh? But if your lower abdomen is feeling especially tender, we should get that looked at. Maybe it is appendicitis. You haven’t had yours out, yet, have you? Did they have appendectomies in the 1930s?”

_“Tony_ ,” James practically wails. He looks down again to see Tony grinning wickedly at him, fingers tracing teasingly over his inner thighs. _“Please.”_

“Okay, okay. Just give me a minute. I’ve got to do some strategizing.” He tilts his head and pokes the appendage in question, and James nearly chokes on his own tongue.

“It’s _not—_ that big!” James wheezes, offended, when he can speak again.

Tony raises his eyebrows skeptically. “Easy for you to say. You’re not the one putting it in your mouth. And, objectively speaking here, you are clearly on the upper end of the scale.” He holds his hand next to it as a comparative demonstration, and then his forearm. James really doesn’t think the latter was necessary.

“You don’t have to put the whole _thing_  in your mouth.” While that would be nice, James will absolutely settle for the tip and a little hand action. Or, hell, even just Tony’s tongue, slipping up the shaft and swirling around the head, plucking at his frenulum and— jesus hell and shitting christ, oh god, why did he think that. His poor, aching cock throbs, once, bouncing gently against his stomach. James almost bursts into tears. Is it possible to get a cramp in your dick?

“Sure, I don’t _have_ to, but I kinda feel like it won’t be satisfying, now, if we don’t go the whole nine yards.” Tony is grinning again.

James takes a very slow, very deep breath. “Tony. If you don’t put some part of my dick. In your mouth. In the next fifteen seconds. I am going to get up out of this bed and go get Steve to blow me instead.”

“That is _rude_ , Barnes,” Tony says, pasting on a faux-scandalized expression. “And after all the nice things I’ve been doing for you.” He massages his thumb over James’ perineum, using just enough pressure to remind him of the existence of his prostate.

“Yup. That’s it. I’m cashing in with Steve.” James makes an attempt to push himself upright, and mostly succeeds in doing an excellent impression of a spastic starfish. “You are actually evil and the future is full of sadists.”

Tony laughs and pushes down on his hips to stop his flailing. “Fine,” he purrs. “Have it your way, soldier.” And he lowers his mouth onto James’ cock.

The noise James makes is unfit for repetition in any kind of polite, or, for that matter, impolite company. Fortunately, James is too occupied by having every nerve in his body bathed in ecstasy to be embarrassed about the fact that he sounds like a seal stuck inside a tuba.

Not coming the instant Tony’s lips touch his dick is probably the greatest act of willpower James has exercised since he dragged his own soul kicking and screaming up through the purgatory of Hydra’s programming. If he can be permitted a little bit of melodrama. Which he fucking can, because it’s his own brain and he just gave himself permission.

Anyway. He doesn’t come. Yet. Screw all the bling the US military tried to pin on him for his service: James wants a medal for _that_.

Despite the fuss he’d kicked up about James’ _size_ , Tony does in fact seem determined to swallow down as much of James as he is physically able to. He sucks and licks and works James over with a single-minded focus that is usually reserved for the lab, inching his way lower with every bob of his head. All James can do is stare at the ceiling, clench his fists in the sheets, and hyperventilate.

He feels Tony’s throat spasm a few times as he hits his limit, and hears him breathing steadily through his nose to fight back the gag reflex. That’s okay, James wants to tell him, except that he definitely can’t speak in comprehensible human language right now. He doesn’t need to push it, this is fine, this fucking _fantastic_ , and James is so close anyway that it’s—

Tony’s pace falters. He shifts his angle, breathes in, and just fuckin’ _goes_ for it.

Suddenly James’ entire length is sheathed in tight, slick heat. Tony’s throat is a pulsing pressure around his cock and his lips purse around the base like they were made for it, and jesus, his _tongue_ is still working, pressing against the underside of his shaft and curling just like that and—

James comes so hard he literally blacks out.

By the time the ringing in his ears has finally subsided enough for the outside world to be audible again, and the grey fuzz over his vision has dissolved into a more manageable cloud of rainbow sparkles, Tony has wriggled his way on top of James and is looking up at him, chin resting on James’ chest, wearing the smuggest expression James has ever seen in his life.

“Good?”

“I think I just had a stroke.”

“Lucky you’ve got that supersoldier superhealing thing going on, then.”

“I hate you.”

“You love me,” Tony counters in a cheerful sing-song.

James doesn't try to argue, because he’s still trying to remember how to breathe.

“That was honestly, legitimately frightening,” he says eventually, with great conviction. “I am afraid of you giving me orgasms now. I don’t know if anything can compare to that and I am actually scared to find out.”

Tony cackles gleefully. “I told you it would be worth it,” he coos. “Are you _sure_ you don’t want a few points of comparison?” He bats his eyelashes, and James thinks, _oh, god._ He doesn’t know if he can survive another round.

“I want… pancakes?” He suggests feebly. Please, Tony, have mercy on him. “But maybe the other stuff, you know, uh... later.”

Tony snickers. “After pancakes.”

“Right. After, uh, pancakes,” James agrees, his voice faint. There are leftover pancakes from brunch, and, actually, loading up on carbs may not be a bad idea. As soon as he can, y’know, walk again. Did he seriously just agree to a second round of this?

Yes. Yes he did. Christ almighty. Tony Stark is going to murder him with futuristic dick-sorcery, and it’s going to be _incredible_.

  
  


* * *

  
  


“Hey, guys. Has anybody seen Bucky?” Steve sticks his head into the common room. He looks over the assembled Avengers, and frowns slightly. “...or Tony?”

“They headed off together after brunch,” Nat tells him, in that mild tone of voice that means she’s saying something more than she’s actually saying. Steve’s brow wrinkles.

“Where’d they go? I already checked the lab.”

All four of them - even Bruce! that’s just not fair – give him one of those _looks_ . One of those _‘oh you sweet summer child’_ looks. As if he isn’t a friggin war veteran with a tactical record that’s apparently still core curriculum at West Point and enough life experience to turn an unenhanced man grey, _thank you very fuckin’ much_. He didn’t fall off the turnip truck yesterday. Assholes.

“Trust me, Rogers,” Sam says. ‘You do _not_ want to know.” Clint snickers.

“...Oh.” Fuck. He’s blushing, isn’t he? Godfuckingdammit. He’s definitely blushing. Jesus christ. Speaking of tactics: time for a tactical retreat. “Right.” He clears his throat, glowers at his teammates and their poorly-disguised smirks, and slinks back to the elevators.

 

Tony fucking Stark. That bastard.

 

 

* * *

  
  


He doesn’t find Bucky until late that evening. He’s sprawled out on the common room couch in a pair of flannel pajama pants and a threadbare tee, completely limp and looking totally spaced out. Knowing how the flashbacks sometimes hit him, it’s enough to ring alarm bells in Steve’s head.

“Hey, Buck,” Steve says softly, keeping his approach slow and unthreatening. “You doing okay, pal?”

Bucky blinks at him. “I might be dying,” he says solemnly – a pronouncement that is somewhat at odds with the faint, dopey smile that spreads over his face.

Steve squints. “You don’t… look like you’re dying?”

“Steve. Do you know what edging is?”

Oh.

Look, it’s not that he’s _unaware_ that Bucky and Tony have been… doing… things… together. It’s just that he would prefer to think about it as little as possible and live in denial about the situation for hopefully the rest of his life. Fine, maybe it makes him a goddamn square, but he really does _not_ need to imagine or know about his teammates getting it on with each other. That is not a thing that needs to be happening in his brain, ever. Especially when one of the teammates is his lifelong best friend and the other is their sassy, innuendo-dropping, infuriating and infuriatingly charming billionaire benefactor.

Steve sighs, and crosses his arms. “Yes, Bucky, I know what edging is.” Despite his reputation for being _vanilla_ (which, as far as Steve can tell, is an unnecessarily derogatory way of saying that he doesn’t enjoy getting tased up the butthole while wearing a gag and a squirrel costume), he has familiarized himself with modern sexual slang. For a variety of reasons. Only one of which is so that he doesn’t embarrass himself on Twitter again.

“I think I’m gonna marry him,” Bucky says dreamily.

Steve pinches the bridge of his nose. What did he ever do to deserve this? “That’s a little premature, don’t you think?”

“I can’t feel anything below my waist, Steve. I’m pretty sure Tony Stark sucked my soul out through my dick. When did they invent future-sex? Did I miss that while I was in cryo? Did somebody win a Nobel prize for this?”

“Pretty sure we had edging in the forties,” Steve says wryly. It wasn’t called that back then, sure, but as they say: nothing new under the sun.

“Well, nobody told _me_ about it.” He sounds like he’s holding Steve personally responsible for this failure.

“I’ll be honest, pal, you seemed to have everything pretty well under control at the time.” It is _certainly_ not Steve’s fault that none of Bucky’s myriad conquests had introduced him to the wonderful world of prolonged orgasm denial.

“I love the future,” is all Bucky replies, his voice going soft and dreamy again.

“Well, Buck, I’m glad you’re having a good time.” He is happy for Bucky, really. God knows he deserves something nice in his life. But Steve has already spent way too much time today thinking about his best friend’s penis, and he would _very_ much like to think about literally anything else, right about immediately. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’m gonna go to the gym and punch things until I forget the mental image of Stark with his face in your crotch, thanks."

Bucky grins. “Not jealous, are you?”

“Actually, I’m thinking about becoming a monk.”

“You would be a fucking terrible monk.”

“You said I’d be a terrible soldier, too.”

“You _were_ a terrible soldier. You can’t follow orders for shit and you treat risk-assessment percentages like Yelp reviews.”

“As always, Buck, I appreciate your support and unwavering confidence.”

“Love ya, Stevie,” Bucky says with a smirk, and sarcastically blows him a kiss.

Steve rolls his eyes. “Save it for Stark, jackass.”

“Will do. Want me to pass one along from you, Sweetcheeks?”

“Pass _this_ along,” Steve growls, and shoves a couch cushion over Bucky’s face.

Bucky flails halfheartedly, his muffled snorting filtering up through the upholstery foam. With Bucky briefly incapacitated, Steve ~~flees~~ strides purposefully away. He almost makes it to the elevators, but Bucky manages to escape his pillow prison in time to get off one last salvo.

“Green’s not a good color for you, Rogers!” he calls down the hall, and Steve can _hear_ the shit-eating grin.

 

James fucking Buchanan Barnes. That son-of-a-bitch. Honestly. He and Stark deserve each other.

 


End file.
